Magic Knickers
by Pinky Brown
Summary: Ron Weasley, the night before Valentine’s Day, in a lingerie department. What more do you need? This story was Runner-up in both the "Best One Shot" and "Best AU Fic" categories at the 2009 Ron/Hermione Awards on Livejournal.
1. Chapter 1: Ron

_My train home last night was chock-full of embarrassed-looking men clutching giant bouquets of flowers in preparation for Valentine's Day, and it set me to wondering... What would Ron Weasley do?_

_Enjoy!_

_PB, 14th Feb 2009 _

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**Magic Knickers**

**Chapter One: Ron**

So I'm standing in the shop, me and fifty other blokes, all with the same panic-stricken look in their eyes, looking at knickers. It's February 13th - _Friday_ 13th no less - and I'm late night shopping in one of those big department stores on Oxford Street. I hate Oxford Street at the best of times - actually, I just hate shopping full stop, but department stores are by far the worst. I've been dragged around them a couple of times now, and the afternoon _always _ends in a row. Last time she suggested we "pop into Debenhams" I told her we could save on shoe leather _and_ money by just staying in and having a row at home. Which, unfortunately, was exactly what we ended up doing. Next time I'll keep my big mouth shut.

This is ridiculous. I'm surrounded by womens' underwear and I'm not even enjoying it. Still, at least I had the sense to check her bra and knicker sizes first, unlike some of these chumps. Ten minutes ago I heard someone ask one of the sales assistants what the "average bra size is". I guarantee _he's _not getting any bedroom action tomorrow night. Everyone else seems just as confused. That bald bloke has been umming and aahing over whether his wife would prefer the black or red lace basque for about half an hour.

Yeah, I know what a basque is now. Impressive, eh? Well, no, not really. I only know because on the one previous occasion I ventured into the lingerie department with Hermione, I saw one on a mannequin and had to ask her what it was. I thought it was spelled b-a-s-k for about three months. You know, like the shark. Still, I did at least learn that "basques are tarty", which little piece of information has helped me no end in my quest today. I could tell that bald bloke, but maybe his wife _wants_ to look tarty. Maybe that's the whole _idea._

That's something I hadn't considered, actually. Maybe Hermione has a secret hankering to wear slutty underwear and she's just too embarrassed to say anything. I like to think that after nine years I know Hermione pretty well, but if I'm honest, since we've only actually been, ah, _doing it _for four months, I'm still feeling my way as far as all that stuff's concerned. The first time I saw her in her knickers and bra my throat went so dry I couldn't speak. And then she took them off, and I thought I might actually die.

I'm sure most blokes will tell you the same thing, we don't care what type of bra it is, whether it pushes up or pushes together, or pushes in two entirely different bloody directions. We don't even care if she's wearing some of those giant knickers the size of a tablecloth. All of that's just the packaging; it's what inside that counts. Underwear is just the wrapping you chuck away because you want to get to the present.

Not that I've discussed this with anyone, you understand; that's just my opinion. I'd be willing to bet it's true, though. I can't imagine anything she could possibly wear in bed that would make me go, "No, sorry, I've changed my mind. Let's just go to sleep instead." I've seen her wearing a nightie. I've seen her wearing pyjamas. I've seen her wearing an old t-shirt with a cartoon of a teddy bear on it. I've seen her wearing just the top half of my pyjamas. I've seen her wearing just the bottom half of my pyjamas, although the (admittedly awesome) effect of that one was slightly spoiled when she tripped over the hem and nearly brained herself on the bedside table. Rule One, ladies: wearing your boyfriend's pyjama trousers when he's nine inches taller than you is _dangerous._ Sexy (oh, _Merlin_ was it sexy!), but dangerous.

I'm just about getting used to that now. I'm her _boyfriend_. The first time she introduced me to someone as, "This is Ron, he's my boyfriend", I had to physically restrain myself from snogging the face off her right then and there in her parents' front room. Which, considering we were there to meet her Aunt, probably wouldn't have gone down too well.

Right, knickers. Knickers, knickers, knickers. Thongs, bikinis, boy shorts, French knickers, camis, minis, midis, maxis, full briefs, low rise, high leg, or G-strings? Jesus. No wonder all these poor bastards look so confused. Oh, my God, they've got something called _magic knickers!_ Oh, I am seriously tempted. I mean, what else do you give a witch for Valentine's Day but _magic_ knickers?

Hmm, except that on closer inspection they seem to be some sort of giant elasticated job that stretches from the tits to the knees. It looks like something my mum would wear, and that's _really_ not a road I want Hermione to go down. I don't think I'd ever be able to have sex again, for a start. Not with my eyes open, anyway.

The problem is, you don't get enough time. I mean, it's only six weeks after Christmas, for God's sake, any decent present ideas you had you used up then. It doesn't help that there are a million newspaper and magazine articles telling you "What women really want for Valentine's Day", and not one of them ever looks like something this one _particular_ woman wants.

To be fair, I _was_ warned. I've been asking every bloke I know for advice for _weeks_ now.

George told me: "Get chocolates and champagne. But don't get supermarket own-brand champagne, and make sure you get the biggest, most expensive box of chocolates you can afford. I know they're obvious, but if you _don't_ get them, you'll be paying for it forever. Anyway, at least you get to share them, which you can't say about posh face cream."

Charlie told me: "Book a restaurant. A nice one, though; you can't be stingy on Valentine's Day or she'll never forget it. Don't order the house red. Get the third cheapest bottle of wine on the menu. If you get the second cheapest it just looks obvious. And don't look at the prices, and don't let her see the bill. Just hand over the cash and make sure you leave a big tip. Nothing less than ten per cent. If in doubt, round it up. Oh, and it has to be French or Italian. Don't ask me why, but apparently a curry's not considered romantic."

Fred told me: "Get her flowers. But not roses. She'll think you've got no imagination and it'll look like you bought them from the supermarket on the way home. And not red ones, either. Get her something the colour of her eyes. Women love that shit."

Yeah, great advice, mate, cheers. Except Hermione's eyes are _brown_. What am I supposed to do, get her a bunch of _twigs?_

I've ordered this bouquet, anyway. It's supposed to be delivered to the flat tomorrow morning. I don't know much about flowers – no shit, Ron – but there are some big yellow ones, some tiny white ones and some orange ones that look like a kid's drawing of a flower. You know, a circle in the middle, and then lots of petals around it. The woman in the shop did tell me what they were called, but I've forgotten. I should have written it down. I was going to get her an all orange bouquet, but then I realised just in time that buying your girlfriend flowers in the colour of your Quidditch team might not look like the most romantic gesture ever.

Bill told me: "Get her underwear. Not the cheap stuff, though. You should look at the price tag and have a small heart attack. And not red, either. You might as well call her a slut and be done with it if you buy her red underwear. And check her sizes first. If you get her a size too big, she'll think you think she's fat. And if you get a size too small, you'll never see her in it, and it'll go back to the shop the next day. Of course, it'll go back to the shop the next day anyway, but that's not the point. You could buy her knickers made of gold and encrusted with diamonds and she'd still take them back to the shop the next day. That doesn't mean she doesn't want you to buy them for her."

My Dad told me: "For God's sake, don't buy her underwear! You'll get it wrong! She'll accuse you of buying a present for _you_, not _her_. She'll take it straight back to the shop the next day. You'll probably end up having a row. You definitely won't get laid. _(Alright, Dad didn't say that one, that was my mate Mike from work)_ Get her wine. Get her chocolates. Take her out for a nice meal and tell her she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Just don't get her underwear, whatever you do. Unless you _want_ to be sleeping on the sofa for the next fortnight..."

Well, personally, I consider that a challenge. It's our first Valentine's Day together. Our first proper one, anyway. I've got a job now, so it's the first time I've been able to afford to really splash out and buy her something nice. Plus I'm twenty in two weeks time, and I really want to show her I can buy her proper grown-up presents. She's been telling me to "grow up, Ron" since I was about eleven, and I want her to realise that I finally _have. _

I've done everything I'm supposed to do. I've booked the restaurant, I've bought the chocolates (now they really _are_ a present for me, not her), I've ordered the flowers, and I've got the champagne, but I want to get her something _else_, too. Not just the knickers. Something unexpected. Something spectacular. Something she won't quite be able to believe I managed to buy without _help._ It's got to be _perfect_.

It's not like I'm not trying. I must have been in a hundred shops this week in search of the perfect Valentine's Day present for Hermione, and looked at a hundred heart-shaped ice cube trays and his 'n' hers toothbrush holders. Saint Valentine, the patron saint of useless, overpriced pink tat. Everything I look at reminds me of Lavender, and that's obviously not a good thing. I mean, this is a girl who once bought me a Valentine's card in the shape of a giant pink fluffy rabbit with the tagline "_My Bunny Valentine"_. I think I can safely say that anything Lavender might like, Hermione definitely _won't._

Harry told me: "Get her a book, of course!" and looked at me as though I was mental for even asking.

And there you have one of the many, _many _reasons Hermione goes out with _me_, and not _him_. Hermione likes books, everyone knows that. Hermione _loves_ books, in fact. I half-suspect that if the flat were on fire, she'd shout at me to save myself and run to the bookshelves to rescue as many of her beloved books as possible from the flames. But for the first time since I've known her, I know that the one thing I'm _not_ gonna buy her for Valentine's Day is a _book. _Although I did have a quick glance through the "Erotica" section in the bookshop earlier. Purely for research purposes, you understand. I think I need to know her a little bit better before I buy her something like that, though. Anyway, what's it in for me? She'll be reading it in bed, and I'll be sitting there like a lemon twiddling my thumbs. No, it has to be something we can _both _enjoy. Maybe with _pictures_. Or diagrams, ha ha. I don't know how people can read that stuff, anyway. I had to put it back on the shelf after a couple of minutes because I was getting a little too hot and bothered, if you know what I mean. A bookshop's not really the place for that sort of thing.

Actually, maybe it _is_. Maybe we could break into a bookshop after it's closed one night and do it in the Modern Fiction section. I think she'd like that. It's her two favourite things combined, after all. I suppose the equivalent for me it would be doing it in the middle of the Cannons' pitch. Actually, that's not entirely impossible. I work for the Quidditch League, so I know people who work at all the grounds, and they know me at the Cannons because I once had my photo taken for the Daily Prophet wearing a Cannons shirt. I also stupidly spent quite a large portion of my first pay packet on an annual season ticket, not realising that I wouldn't make it to half the matches 'cos Hermione had, er, distracted me. She's good at distracting me. And I'm good at being distracted. But one for the future, I think...

Percy - _Percy!_ – recommended chocolate body paint, which I have to say is definitely something I'm considering, although I'm slightly worried that at the crucial moment I'll get a sudden mental flash of him, naked and with chocolate smeared across his glasses, and that'll put me off my game somewhat.

Anyway, I don't want to get her anything that someone else suggested. Well, apart from the chocolates and the flowers and the champagne, of course. I want to be able to claim all the credit myself. Mainly so that if she wants to do any thanking, I'll be the one on the receiving end.

We didn't do Valentine's Day last year. Well, there was a war on. There was a war on the year before, too. And anyway, we weren't really together, so... Besides, opportunities to go out to French restaurants are kind of few and far between when you're living in a _cave_. And the year before _that_, we were still at school – _Christ_ that seems like a lifetime ago – and I spent most of the evening trying to get my hand in Lavender's bra. Yes, I know, I hang my head in shame. In my defence – well, no, I don't really have a defence. Apart from 'sixteen and stupid'. Luckily for me, two weeks later, I got accidentally poisoned and nearly died, and somehow that was enough for Hermione to forgive me for spending the last three months with my tongue down Lavender's throat. One of the best things that ever happened to me, nearly dying, and I'm not even joking.

This year Valentine's Day is on a Saturday, which is a double blow to all attached blokes out there because, as Fred pointed out, just one night isn't going to cut it. They'll be expecting nothing less than a long weekend in Paris. Fortunately for Fred and his bank balance, his missus is currently going through the world's worst bout of morning sickness and can't keep anything down at all, so Paris – snails, frogs' legs, all those rich, creamy sauces – is definitely off the menu. His special Valentine's Day meal is probably going to consist of dry toast and flat lemonade.

I hope Hermione isn't expecting Paris. Not on my wages, anyway. I used to think that once I was working I'd suddenly have all this money to spend, but once you've paid the rent and bought food and toilet rolls and had a couple of nights out, it's amazing how little you actually have left to live on. Certainly not enough to afford a weekend in Paris, anyway.

We talked about going once, back in school, but then the war happened, and we never did. Maybe we'll go one day. It's not like it's far, after all. Just across the Channel. And I do like the idea of a whole weekend together, just me and Hermione, in bed with croissants. We've never been on holiday together. We've never even been away for a night. Mind you, if we're just going to spend the whole weekend in bed, what's the point in spending all that money on a fancy hotel room? We can do that at home. We _do_ do that at home.

Actually, I'm kind of hoping that's what we'll be doing this weekend. I've got a rough plan: get up (not too early), make her breakfast in bed (I bought eggs and smoked salmon. I don't really like smoked salmon, but Hermione does, so that's what we're having), then hopefully the flowers will arrive, then I can give her the chocolates and the champagne and we can have a glass or two, and then I'm thinking a couple of hours of solid shagging before lunch. Oh, and after lunch. Possibly even _during_. At some point we'll presumably need to get out of bed, have showers, and get dressed so we can go to this bloody restaurant. It's very poncy – it's called Chez Something-or-other. I asked Bill, and apparently it means "At Someone's". _Chez Pierre_, that's it! "At Pete's"! Doesn't sound quite so posh in English, does it?

I've never been to a French restaurant before. Actually, I've only been to a restaurant twice in my entire life, once in Cambridge with Hermione's parents, and once, a few months ago, with mine. Me and Hermione have never actually been out for a meal alone together. Well, not one where you have to dress up, anyway. Just cafes. It's funny how some kinds of foods are quite cheap – pizza, curry, full English breakfast – and some other kinds of food – French, mainly – are stupidly expensive, and it doesn't seem to depend at all on how nice the food is. I mean, in the real world, something as disgusting as snails ought to be practically _free_, don't you think?

I fully expect to make a complete arse of myself tomorrow night. I will be that English idiot who wants his steak 'very well done', so the waiters all glare at him and the chef spits in his food. I will mispronounce things on the menu and insist on having a cup of tea to finish off my meal and not the foul coffee they always try and force on you. I live in England, it's my _right_ to have a cup of tea, I don't care what some snotty French waiter thinks of me. I will _not_, however, make any comment at all on the prices, or pretend to have a heart attack when the bill comes. It costs whatever it costs, and if I have to eat dry bread sandwiches at work for the next month, then so be it.

Charlie says you know you're in a posh restaurant when they make you pay separately for the vegetables. He says it's a complete scam. You both order a portion of peas, but you still only get one dish. It's never a massive mound of peas, it still looks like just one portion. Mind you, since this is a French restaurant, it'll probably be peas in some sort of cream sauce. I hope not. That sounds disgusting. Although I did have peas in cheese once. Peas paneer, it's an Indian side dish. It's nicer than it sounds, honest. Me and Hermione have worked our way through a lot of takeaway menus since we moved in together last October. Sometimes you just can't be bothered to get out of bed. Hermione's got one of those Muggle mobile phones so she can speak to her parents and for emergencies, and I tell you, there being no food in the house on a Friday evening _is_ an emergency.

We've just about got to the stage where we've stopped turning to each other and saying, "I can't believe we waited two and a half years to do this" every time we have sex. But it's true, I can't believe we waited _two and a half years_ to do it. I mean, I know there was a war on, and I know we agreed we'd sort of split up until it was all over so we could concentrate on helping Harry, but _fuck_... if I'd known what I was missing, there's no way I'd have agreed to it. Which is probably a good thing, because I don't think I could have concentrated on what we needed to do in the war with naked Hermione on the brain the whole time. The first few weeks after we moved in together, when pretty much all we did, all day and all night, was shag, my mind was a beautiful, wonderful blank. Shagged senseless, I think the term is. They're not wrong there. Seriously, if you'd asked me, I don't think I could have told you my middle name. Or my first.

It's settled down a bit now, though. We don't do it every night anymore. But we're definitely still in the honeymoon period. Either that or it's going to be like this forever and I'm officially the luckiest bloke in the entire _world_. Which I kind of feel like I am anyway, of course. I mean, when you've wanted something for so long and you finally get it... I'm so happy it's sickening.

I'm not just talking about the sex, either. I _live with_ Hermione. I get to see her wandering around the flat in a damp towel after she's had a shower. I get to watch her brushing her hair before she gets into bed every night, which is sexier than it probably sounds, believe me. I get brought a cup of tea in bed every morning. A cup of tea and a kiss. Sometimes more than a kiss. Sometimes the tea goes cold and I have to make another one, but I don't mind one little bit. Hermione, it turns out, likes morning sex. Can you imagine my fourteen year old self learning that particular piece of information? I think my head would have exploded on the spot. I get to go home to her every night, too, and it's wonderful. Even after four months, sometimes when we've been out for the evening and she says, "_Let's go home,"_ I get a lump in my throat. Yeah, I know, I'm a soppy git. Tomorrow's my chance to show just her much of a soppy git I can be.

And that reminds me, it's half past five now, so I really need to get a move on. After this I want to head over to Diagon Alley where there's an antique shop that closes at six, and if I'm desperate, Flourish & Blott's, which is open 'til seven. And if I'm _really_ desperate, this place is open 'til nine. Hermione thinks I'm in the pub for a work leaving do. Whether or not she'll guess what a big fat lie that was when I arrive home _not_ stinking of beer and fags is another thing.

Right. _Bras_...

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_Author's Note__:_

_Hope you liked it and please leave a review!_

_Thank you!_

_PB x_


	2. Chapter 2: Hermione

_Author's Note:_

_Magic Knickers was only ever intended to be a one-off, but two years later Valentine's Day was approaching again, and I found myself wondering - well, what would Hermione do?_

_Dedicated to everyone who will be spending V-Day in bed with a giant bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk and a Colin Firth DVD. _

_Pb, 11__th__ Feb 2011_

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**Chapter Two: Hermione**

This is _ridiculous_. Here I am, the night before Valentine's Day, wandering dazedly around the Gifts For Men department in Debenhams and so desperate to buy something - _anything_ - that a few minutes ago I almost considered buying him a _Simpsons_ tie. For someone who hasn't worn a tie since the day he left school and has never heard of _The Simpsons_.

It's my own fault, of course. I shouldn't have left it this late. And it's not like me at all; I'm usually Mrs Super-Organised. I make lists. I buy presents months in advance. I _research_. But this time, all my preparation has failed me.

It doesn't help that Valentine's Day is on a Saturday this year, so that's one less shopping day I have to find the perfect present. I should be home already, but instead I've come into town after work - me and the entire population of London, it seems, as Oxford Street is _heaving_ - desperately hoping that the perfect present will just leap off the shelf.

The perfect present. Is there even such a thing? He's always seemed to like all the other presents I've bought him (with the notable exception of that homework planner in fifth year, but we don't talk about that). Usually you can't go wrong with anything Quidditch-related, or made of chocolate. But that's the easy option, and the easy options are for other people. Everyone else can buy me books. Everyone else can buy Ron chocolate. We know each other well enough to do better. Well, I thought we did. So why the _hell _am I standing here looking at novelty golf tees?

Oh, God, I can't believe I've left it this late. It's Friday night, it's half past seven, and if I don't find anything in the next hour and a half, I'll be going home empty-handed. My feet are aching, I haven't had any dinner, it's bitingly cold outside and stiflingly warm in here, I _really_ need a coffee, and on top of all that, I think I'm getting a tension headache. And I _still_ haven't got a clue as to what to buy him.

It's not fair; it's easy for men. They have a checklist of things they're supposed to buy and do: romantic meal, flowers, champagne, chocolates, and of course, 'sexy' underwear for the wife or girlfriend, which as we all know, is really a present for _him._ It gives men the excuse that as long as they tick all the romantic boxes on Valentine's Day, they don't have to bother for the rest of the year.

I should say at this point, Ron is not that bad. He is not afraid of the words "I love you", in public or private or even in front of his friends and family. Even if this sometimes comes in the form of a mumbled "loveyou" when he's half-asleep and his hand is wandering up the front of my nightie. But he also will come up behind me and slide his arms around me and kiss my neck at parties and family gatherings, will happily hold my hand when we are walking down the street, and will sometimes just ambush me with a passionate kiss for no reason at all other than that he loves me and can't believe (as I can't either) that neither of us are dead and that we are finally together. I suppose that we had to keep our feelings for each other suppressed for such a long time that now we don't have to anymore, we both want to make the most of it.

It's been four months now, and living with Ron is everything I hoped it would be and a lot more too. Four whole months and I'm not bored yet! I'm very happy indeed with _that _side of things. To be honest, I can't quite believe we waited so long. I can't even begin to imagine going without sex for that long now. Not even a month. Not even a week! When we first moved in together, we could barely go an _evening_. We even used to come home at lunchtimes! If we didn't have work to go to and rent to pay, we probably wouldn't have got out of bed from the end of October, when we moved in together, until Christmas. I think that when you are a couple of late starters like we were you want to do as much catching up as possible! We don't quite reach those early frenzied heights anymore. Not that we've got bored with each other or anything like that, just that it would have been impossible to keep up that level of momentum indefinitely. We'd have been hospitalised with exhaustion.

I was worried, before we moved in together, that we were rushing it, that it was too soon, that being cooped up together in a small flat all the time might ruin things before they'd even got started. After all, we'd been a couple for only six weeks at school before the war had got in the way, and one war and two years later, we weren't the same people anymore. We were just kids then. We'd been through so much, _seen_ so much. It was ridiculous to expect us to just pick up where we'd left off. Since the war had ended we'd both been living at our respective parents' houses and still seeing each other more as friends than lovers. A few times we slept together in the same bed, but we always kept our clothes on, and I didn't feel ready to do anything. We were just getting to know each other on a one-to-one basis again, I suppose. For two years, twenty-four hours a day we'd had someone else - Harry - standing between us, and being alone together felt like both a delicious luxury and oddly wrong. We were in limbo, not longer "just friends", but not quite ready to take it to the next level, even though we'd both wanted it for so long.

It was odd, that it felt like we were rushing headlong into moving in together when we'd actually only really been a couple - in the physical sense - for a couple of weeks. But then we'd been waiting for this moment for six years. I've been in love with him since I was fourteen. We'd taken three years to get to the point of admitting our feelings for each other, and then had to put it all on hold for another two years because of the war. Maybe it was about time that we rushed into _something_ in this relationship. Maybe, for once, we should act without worrying about how the other might react, what other people would think, whether it was the right thing to do, or whether it would upset Harry. For once, we were just going to do what _we_ wanted to do. It was the first decision we made as a couple, really. The first forward-looking decision, the first forward move anyway. All our previous decisions had been about putting things on hold, denying our feelings, hiding our relationship, pretending to ourselves and other people that which in retrospect must have been blindingly obvious to all. Wasting time when we could have been together, especially considering that either or both of us could have been killed in the war. We came close a few times, too.

That kind of thing should make you throw caution to the wind, shouldn't it? It's why so many people - Harry's parents, Bill & Fleur, Remus and Tonks - get married in war time. Seizing the chance of happiness while you can, not knowing how much time you have left. But Ron and I - being contrary types - did exactly the opposite. We put our relationship on ice during the war and I suppose it took some time to adjust to not living in fear anymore. Realising that we had a future, that we could be together, that no-one or nothing else was going to stop us. Except ourselves.

Of course, once we did move in together, I realised what an idiot I'd been. Spending so much time together wasn't a problem at all. Since we were both working now, we actually spent _less_ time with each other than we had at school, when we had lessons together all day, and certainly less than during the war, when we'd spent two whole years in very close proximity to each other, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If we could get through _that_ without killing each other, living together ought to be a doddle.

And what I hadn't even considered was the joy of freedom. We were finally together. We were adults now. We had jobs, and our own money, and we could do whatever we wanted. Including staying in bed all weekend eating biscuits if we wanted. And staying in bed all the time was mostly what we did. We'd waited so long to be together, and were both discovering the joy of sex and each other's bodies at the same time. It was _fantastic_. Far from annoying each other by spending so much time together, we found we couldn't wait to get home to get our clothes off and get back into bed again. Going out with friends felt like a waste of time. Dinner with family seemed like a waste of time. Nine hours at work felt like the longest time we'd ever spent apart in our lives.

I suppose for a lot of people who have that much passion when they first get together, it eventually burns itself out and they realise there's nothing else to their relationship but the sex, and they have nothing else in common. But for us, we already knew each other about as well as two people ever could. So when, inevitably, we couldn't keep up the momentum and weren't doing it every night anymore, it wasn't the end of the world. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that things are even _better_ now. It was just the start of yet another new phase in our relationship. Learning to be a couple. Me bringing him a cup of tea in bed on a Sunday morning. Him making us beans on toast on a Sunday teatime. Doing the supermarket shop together. Cuddling up on the sofa. Just getting on with our lives together like everyone else does. Being normal. It was nice. It _is_ nice. Better than nice. It's _wonderful. _

There's a framed photo of myself, Ron and Harry aged twelve on the bookcase. It used to be in our bedroom, but we moved it into the front room for, um, obvious reasons. Basically, Ron said he didn't want Harry watching us while we were doing it, and I could sort of see his point. Sometimes we look at it and shake our heads in wonder and ask each other, "How did we get from there to here?"

This September will be the tenth anniversary of when we met. _Ten years!_ A whole decade. Although, I say that, but it actually feels longer than ten years, so much has happened in that time. And let's face it, the changes you go through from eleven to twenty-one are pretty monumental, even if you don't factor a war into that equation. But that photograph is a daily reminder of how far we've come, how much we've been through together, how much we've been through _to _be together. And it was all worth it, every last second of it, every argument, every tear, every moment of doubt and confusion. We lived through a war and survived. We lived through _Lavender _and survived. And now, when I look back, it seems like the tiniest bump on the road, and I can't quite believe how close we came to destroying it all before we'd even begun. Well, of _course_ he didn't really love Lavender. It seems so obvious now. And of _course_ I was never really interested in Viktor. I love Ron, completely, utterly and all-consumingly. I always have, and I always will. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that he feels the same.

So this is my chance to _show_ him how much I love him. Why should men be expected to do all the running? I want to give him something original, something surprising, something _perfect. _I made this decision three weeks ago, and since then I've had a hundred ideas and dismissed them all, certain that a better idea would soon come along. Only it didn't. And now it's the night before Valentine's Day, I'm standing in a department store staring at slippers, and I can't remember a single one of them.

The problem is there's no checklist for girls, no boxes I can tick. Or rather, there _are_ lists, in all of the magazines, but the things they suggest are so far removed from the reality of our lives it's almost laughable. One of the articles genuinely suggested cashmere bed socks. How blasé do you have to be about money to believe that £35 is a reasonable amount to spend on a pair of socks? Ron would be _appalled_.

Other apparently serious suggestions included:

_A video of his favourite TV programme. _

Great idea! Except that Ron doesn't watch television. And we don't have a video. Oh, or a television. Or electricity.

_A CD of his favourite band. _

Ron doesn't really listen to music – certainly not Muggle music – and could no more tell you what was in the charts at the moment that I could tell you which team are top of the Quidditch League. And even if he did like music, surely if they were his _favourite band_, he'd already _have_ their CD? Honestly, who writes this rubbish?

_A Rolex watch._

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha.

_A real leather travel bag._

Yes, because that would be perfect for the many foreign holidays we can't afford to go on.

_A luxury men's grooming kit, including badger-hair shave brush and white clay moisturiser. _

Funnily enough, the concept of the metrosexual male has not yet hit the wizarding world.

_Bring a bit of humour into the boudoir with these "100% British Beef" Union Jack boxer briefs. _

No. Not that I think humour should be kept out of the – I refuse to call it boudoir – but just no.

Other apparently serious suggestions included buying him tickets to his favourite sports team. Yes, because nothing says 'I love you' more than the willingness to spend seven hours of your weekend watching the Cannons get beaten again while your boyfriend uses every swearword under the sun to abuse the referee. Besides, Ron already has a season ticket, which he bought in a fit of financial optimism the day he received his first pay cheque and will probably still be paying off _next_ season. I believe there's a match on tomorrow in fact, but if he dares even suggest it, I will not be held responsible for my actions. Basically, he has a choice. He can go and watch the Cannons in action if he wishes, but he won't get any _bedroom_ action tomorrow night. Valentine's Day may be essentially a commercial construct, but that doesn't mean I'm going to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that I'm not expecting to be gloriously romanced tomorrow.

_Run him a warm bath, fill it with rose petals, and light scented candles. _

_Rose_ petals? _Scented candles? _Have these people ever _met_ any actual men? Anyway, we tried to do it in the bath once and it was a disaster. Too much of Ron to fold into such a confined space, too much water, too many bubbles… I nearly drowned and he nearly kneecapped himself. No, baths are for washing, and beds are for sex, and that's just the way it is. And now I'm thinking about him all naked and wet and slippery… Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes.

_Something relating to his favourite hobby. _

The suggestions they gave as to "typical hobbies" for a man were - wait for it - motor racing, gardening, cooking and golf. Do I even need to answer that one? Ron doesn't really have any hobbies, not in the traditional sense of the word. He is not quite twenty years old, for a start. I am not sure that most twenty year old men have hobbies. My _dad_ has hobbies. _Ron's_ dad has hobbies. Ron does _not_ have hobbies. He likes Quidditch, he goes out with his friends, and he spends time with me. He likes the countryside, but that's as far as his interest in gardening goes. And anyway, we live on the fourth floor and do not possess so much as a window box. The closest our flat comes to greenery is that dusty poinsettia his mother bought us for Christmas that resolutely refuses to die, even though neither of us have watered it since New Year in the vain hope that it will.

As for cooking, he likes eating food a hell of a lot more than he likes cooking it. He can do the basics – full English breakfast, bacon sandwiches, shepherd's pie, boiling vegetables, roasting a chicken, jacket potatoes, mashed potatoes, chipped potatoes, pretty much anything to do with potatoes – but I'm not sure he's interested enough in cooking to consider, say, a _wok_ a suitably romantic present. I'm certainly not complaining, since I'm no better and most of the time considerably worse. When I was a proud young feminist growing up I was generally of the view that cooking was women's work, and therefore not worth my time to learn. Besides, Dad always did most of the cooking, as Mum is one of those unfortunate people who can burn food simply by looking at it.

Neither is he interested in those traditionally male Muggle hobbies like motor-racing or golf. In fact, I am not entirely sure he even knows what golf _is_. He can't drive, either. Not legally, anyway, but that's another story. He _can_ probably tell you who Michael Schumacher is, purely because my Dad loves Formula One and has talked poor Ron's ear off about it on more than one occasion. Dad would probably appreciate a pen-holder in the shape of a Ferrari. Ron would have no use for a pen-holder and no comprehension of why it would be in the shape of a Ferrari.

He _does_ like Quidditch, but you couldn't really call it a hobby. An _obsession_, maybe. He'd probably be highly delighted to receive, say, a quill-holder in the shape of Enzo Moriente, the Cannons' new Chaser, which would no doubt make him the envy of the entire office. Well, a little envy and a lot of derision, since he's notorious for having scored the lowest number of goals by any League Chaser in their opening season since 1946. And if Ron could hear me say that, he would be very proud.

_Surprise him with a singing Valentine at his workplace. _

My God, Ron would _hate_ that. He loathes having any kind of attention drawn to himself, and if I did something like that, I rather suspect it would be grounds for divorce. Not that we're married, but you know what I mean.

_If in doubt, get him vouchers. _

Well, a) that's the least romantic thing I ever heard, you might as well just say, here you are, I couldn't think of anything you'd actually like, so you make the decision for me, and b) hmm, what's the other thing… oh, yes, he hates shopping! Buying him vouchers would be like forcing him to do something he hates, and what kind of special Valentine's treat would that be?

And then there are loads of appalling novelty gifts and gadgets, all useless rubbish that I can't imagine _any_ man being pleased to receive as a gift, let alone someone already rather bemused by the idea of, say, cuff links. Ron, it turns out, is surprisingly minimalistic. I don't mean that he's tidy, of course, far from it, just that he doesn't buy or accumulate _stuff._ When we moved in, my belongings filled several boxes, and that was before you even counted the books. Ron had one rucksack and a broomstick. Four months later and I reckon you could still fit everything in this flat that belongs to Ron into one rucksack. If the house ever burnt down he'd be able to save everything he owned on the way out of the door and still have time to make himself a cup of tea, while I would have to be dragged out by a fireman, screaming that I couldn't decide which of my books to save, and he should just leave me there to perish with them.

Oh, God, what am I going to _do?_ There's nothing - literally _nothing_ - in the entire five floors of this shop that Ron would ever want in a million years. I did think of going away for a dirty weekend somewhere (what does any man want for Valentine's Day but lots and lots of sex, after all?) but I left it too late, and of course, it being Valentine's Day, everywhere was booked up months ago. Shame, because that would certainly have solved my present-buying dilemma.

I should point out that I haven't just left it until the last minute before going out to look for a present. You are talking to a girl who once bought all her friends _talking homework planners_ for Christmas, remember? I am nothing if not organised. I've been scouring the magazines, the shops, and my own mind since before Christmas, certain that the perfect Valentine's present _must_ exist, and that I must find it. I even asked my friends and family for advice, which was both fruitless and, well, mortifying. Last weekend I got so desperate I even spoke to Ron's mum about it under the pretext of helping her wash up after Sunday lunch.

Molly: _"Cook him a wonderful meal. Food is the best way to a man's heart, you know. Especially a Weasley man's heart. You can't go wrong. I'll lend you some of Ron's favourite recipes if you like."_

Good idea in theory. Unfortunately, as we've already established, I'm not much of a cook. Unless I'm going to serve it up wearing stockings and suspenders, which would at least be one way around the problem - distract him from the food Imade and then order a pizza afterwards! I don't mention this idea to Molly, of course. "Actually, Molly, how about I just throw your son down on the kitchen floor amongst the potato peelings, tear his trousers off, and shag him silly? Don't you think that's a _much _better way to a man's heart?"

Besides, I think Ron might wonder what he's let himself in for if he came home to find me in the kitchen wearing an apron and serving up one of his mum's recipes. I'm not his mother and I have no intention of turning into her, thank you very much. And I'm quite sure he doesn't want me to either.

Her other suggestion was equally unhelpful. "_Knit him a scarf or a jumper."_ Frankly I rather suspect that after spending the first nineteen years of his life clad entirely in his mother's homemade knitwear, the very last thing Ron wants to see is yet another bloody hand-knitted jumper.

I asked my own mother for advice too. She can neither knit nor cook, so had rather more practical suggestions for me.

Me: "I want to do something original for Valentine's Day and I need your help."

Her: "Hermione, there is no such thing as "original" on Valentine's Day. Don't you think that over the century or so that men and women have been celebrating it, people have tried to be original and failed horribly? That's why they stick to the tried and tested options, like chocolates and champagne."

"What do you get Dad?"

"I don't get him anything. Oh, don't look at me like that, he doesn't get me anything either. Presents are for birthdays, Christmas, and our anniversary. We exchange cards, we have breakfast in bed if we're not working, and in the evening we have a nice meal at home, just the two of us. It's not hugely different from any other day, to be honest, but when you've been married twenty years, you do tend to run out of ideas. Neither of us wants to do anything too commercial, and restaurants just use it as an excuse to rip you off with some overpriced set menu full of things you wouldn't usually eat for a price you wouldn't usually pay. We'd both much rather stay at home and enjoy a nice quiet meal together, without having to shell out thirty pounds for a bottle of wine we could have bought for six pounds at the supermarket. And we don't have to listen to some dreadful "gypsy violinist" or put up with people trying to sell us "roses for the lady" while we're trying to eat.

"But when you were younger, didn't you ever do anything romantic?"

"What, before we were married and became dried-up old prunes, you mean? Look, you have to bear in mind we were twenty-six when we got together, we weren't teenagers. Those early years, we were adults with proper sensible, grown-up jobs. We worked long hours, too. If we managed to get a night off at the same time more than once a week, it was a miracle. But in answer to your question, yes, of course we did romantic things, we just did them on random dates throughout the year and not on the one day it seems to be compulsory. We had a moonlight picnic once, but I couldn't tell you what day of the year it was, or even what month. I don't imagine, however, that we would have had a moonlight picnic in mid-February; it's far too cold for that, especially in Norfolk."

"My advice to you is; stop trying to do something unique and impressive. The best way to show your love for each other is just to spend time together; it doesn't matter where you are or what you actually do on the day. You could be sitting in a bus shelter in the rain, and it wouldn't matter if you were with the right person. Well, actually, the best way to show your love for each other is to show it every single day of your lives and not just once a year because everyone else is doing it, but I imagine you already do that, don't you? Honestly, I see the way you two look at each other, and you don't have anything to worry about. Do you know what your father said to me, that first time you brought Ron round to the house and introduced him to us as your boyfriend? He said, 'He looks at her as though she's an angel sent from heaven and he can't believe his luck, and that's exactly the way a father wants a boy to look at his daughter.' More wine, darling?"

Yes, yes, that's all very well and good, but I don't _want_ to spend our first proper Valentine's Day together sitting in a bus shelter in the rain. I want it to be special, I want it to be romantic, I want it to be unique and impressive, and memorable, and _perfect_. Maybe something abstract like a moonlight picnic would be the way to go, although as Valentine's Day is – aargh! _tomorrow_ - I rather suspect I've left it too late to organise something like that now. Plus it really is freezing out there, so that pretty much rules out anything outdoors. And as for something _in_doors, every hotel and B & B and restaurant in the country will be booked solid this weekend. Basically, to borrow a phrase that my dear sweet boyfriend would probably use, I'm screwed.

I asked Ginny for advice too, although it was a short conversation, as there is not much in life more embarrassing than talking to your boyfriend's sister about your plans for "romance". For which read, lots and lots of sex, but with candles.

Me: "So, I was thinking about buying myself some nice underwear. You know, for Valentine's Day. Not that all of my underwear isn't nice, of course. Well, it's more _practical_ than nice. I just mean, it's not… I mean... uh…"

Ginny, with her usual admirable ability to get straight to the heart of the matter: "You mean _sexy_ underwear."

Me, blushing: "Yes."

"Isn't that _his_ job?"

"Well, it's supposed to be, but can you seriously imagine _Ron_ in a lingerie department?"

Ginny, dryly: "I'm trying not to."

"Anyway, _really_ nice underwear is expensive. Ron hasn't got that kind of money. And is it really worth spending so much on something you might only wear a couple of times? And - well, I'm worried I'm going to feel stupid in it. I don't want him to _laugh_."

"I wouldn't worry about _that_. You might need to put a cushion down in case he _faints_, though."

"What if he buys me something really cheap and tacky-looking, like one of those nasty red lacy things from Ann Summers?"

Ginny, trying not to laugh: "Like what? Crotchless knickers?"

Ginny, as I may have stated before, is embarrassed about _nothing_.

Me, with a shudder: "Don't. Not even as a joke."

"Just be grateful if he manages not to buy you underwear in _Cannons_ colours."

"Oh, _God! _It's going to be _awful_, isn't it? I'm going to have to _pretend_ to like it, and he'll know that I don't, and -"

"And he'll never buy you underwear again, which is a result for everyone. Listen, you're getting yourself in a state over nothing. How long do you think you're actually going to be wearing it anyway? About three minutes, probably. I bet most blokes don't care if you're wearing something expensive and silky or something that comes in a pack of five for a Galleon. Most of the time they probably can't even tell the difference. Knickers, bras, stockings… they don't care what you're wearing or how much you spent, they just want to get you out of it as quickly as possible. You might as well save yourself a whole load of time, money and effort and just turn up naked!"

Yes, _thank_ you, Ginny. Anyway, I thought about it and decided _not_ to buy myself sexy underwear. I am oddly nervous at the thought that _he _might have done, though. We've only been sleeping together for four months. We're still - you know, _learning_. I've never _dressed up _for him before. The thought of it is pretty mortifying. But not quite as embarrassing as the fact that, as if asking his _sister_ how to romance Ron on Valentine's Day wasn't bad enough, I also made the mistake of speaking to his sister-in-law Fleur about it. Probably because I, like everyone else, am suckered in by the whole ridiculous cliché about the French and romance.

Fleur: "Mon dieu, I can 'ardly think about romance at the moment! Bill and I 'ave not slept properly in _months!_ If we can find a babysitter, the first thing we will do is go to bed and sleep for ten 'ours! But before we were married, Bill would meet me after work with flowers and take me to a romantic restaurant - once it was actually in Milan! And then he would give me some thoughtful romantic little present - jewellery, or lingerie - and take me dancing, and once we went on a river boat cruise on the Seine -"

Me: "But what did you do for him?"

"I do not understand what you mean."

"Well, did you buy him a present?"

"No, of course not. Valentine's Day is for the man to buy presents for the woman. You 'ave already given him a present by agreeing to marry 'im. Valentine's Day is your 'usband's chance to say _merci_ for the gift of you."

_The gift of you?_ Well, excuse me, but I am not a _gift. _I am a person. He doesn't have to _thank_ me for agreeing to go out with him, as though I'm doing him some sort of big favour. I _knew_ it was a waste of time asking Fleur for advice. Or _anyone_; no-one else knows Ron as well as I do, so what's the point in asking other people what he might want?

Oh, this is _hopeless! _Ginny's right; most men don't care about champagne and flowers and romance. They just want to get you out of your knickers as quickly as possible. I might as well save myself a lot of time and money and embarrassment and just spend the entire bloody weekend _naked! _

Oh, God.

I think I've just had a revelation.

* * *

_Endnote:_

_Chapter 3 will be posted on Valentine's Day for your reading pleasure. Hope you enjoyed the story from Hermione's point of view, and please leave a review if you can - I'd love to know what you thought!_

_Pb x_

_p.s: Ann Summers, for those who don't know, is a British high street knicker emporium which sells unbelievably tacky polyester lingerie, wipe-clean naughty nurse outfits, Rampant Rabbits, etc, and is also where women planning hen nights buy their penis-shaped novelty drinking straws and pink plastic cowboy hats. It is not the sort of place a nice girl like Hermione would be seen dead in. _


	3. Chapter 3: Ronandhermione

**Chapter Three: Ronandhermione**

So, I've been sitting here for half an hour now feeling rather foolish. It doesn't help that I have no idea what time Ron might be coming home. He said he was going to the pub for a work leaving do, but I suspect that actually he's in a lingerie department - possibly even the same one I was in earlier - having a panic attack about what to get me. But then, if I'm wrong and he really _has_ gone to the pub, I could be sitting here shivering like an idiot for _hours_.

Oh, God, is this just the stupidest idea ever? I don't mind if he laughs, but I don't want him to laugh because it's _stupid_. I mean, obviously, what I'm hoping is that once I explain it to him ("I'm going to spend the entire weekend naked", what's to explain?), he'll get the idea and join in.

Oh, God, there's his key in the lock. Oh, _God_.

Ron comes into the room like a small hurricane as usual.

"Jesus Christ, it's absolutely _freezing_ out there! I hope you've lit the fire, 'cos I've just about lost all the feeling in my limbs. I tell you; I'm absolutely _gasping_ for a cup of -"

He pulls up short when he sees me sitting here and his eyes widen.

"Her-hermione?"

"Oh, hello, Ron," I say calmly, as though everything was completely normal. "How was your evening?"

"Er… fine, thanks."

He waits for me to explain, but I don't say anything. Years pass. Eventually, he can stand it no longer and blurts out, "Why are you naked?"

I attempt a mysterious smile. "Can't you guess?"

"Did I die and go to heaven?"

I can't help laughing. So much for an air of mystery. "Well… I'm your Valentine's present."

"Er… OK. Not that I'm complaining or anything, but you do know Valentine's Day's not 'til tomorrow, right?"

"Yes. But since we have no other plans, I thought we could make a weekend of it."

"A weekend of what?" he asks, huskily.

"Being naked, of course. What did you think I meant?"

We stare at each other for what seems like days, and doubt starts to set in. Finally, I bury my head in my hands and let out a moan of frustration.

"Is this my worst idea ever? I just wanted to do something original for Valentine's Day. I thought of a hundred things I could buy, but then I realised that what you'd _really_ like for Valentine's Day would be -"

"Naked Hermione," finishes Ron, with a grin.

"Exactly. Was I wrong?"

He shakes his head vehemently. "Hermione. You've never been wrong in your life. Trust me; you're not wrong on this one, either. I'm just a bit... _stunned_, that's all."

"Good stunned?"

"_Very_ good stunned."

We smile at each other, and his gaze dips down my body and back up again.

"So you're seriously going to just walk around naked for the rest of the weekend?"

"Well, yes. That's the idea."

"Fucking awesome!" he says, gleefully.

Ignoring the rather inelegant turn of phrase, I attempt to be coy. "I was rather hoping you might join me, actually."

"On the sofa?"

"Well, yes… but mainly…" - I gesture at the board in front of me - "For naked chess."

"Oh, Jesus. Do I need to be naked as well?"

"Yes, of course. This is _my_ Valentine's Day present too, you know."

Ron doesn't hesitate. He pulls his satchel over his head and lets it drop to the floor, then struggles out of his giant padded winter coat.

"Bloody Valentine's Day… why does it have to be in February… too many clothes to take off..."

He untangles his long striped woollen scarf and tosses it aside. I wolf-whistle at him and he shoots me an ironic look.

"You do realise that nothing I ever do from now on can possibly top this, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well… I could buy you diamond-encrusted knickers next year, and you'd still win. You're _always _going to win. I just can't beat naked chess."

"You could probably beat me _at _naked chess, though…"

He gives a hollow laugh. "What, with you sitting opposite me dressed like _that? _I'll be lucky if you don't completely thrash me. Actually, I'll be lucky if I can even remember what the pieces are called."

He plonks himself down next to me and leans forward to untie his shoelaces.

"God, my fingers are too bloody cold to untie these!"

I slide off the sofa and kneel at his feet. "Here, let me do it. Gosh, you really have tied these tight."

Ron shakes his head in wonder, watching me. "You know, I think that's got to be one of the sexiest things I've ever seen in my entire life."

"What, you like me on my knees, do you?" I tease.

Ron lets out a soft moan. "Don't even _say_ things like that. Or is this all part of your strategy to beat me at chess?" He affects shock. "Is that what this is all about? Is this you deciding that after ten years it's about time you finally won a match, and this was the only way you could think of to win?"

I slap his shin gently and glare at him. "No, this is about me wanting to do something nice for my boyfriend to show him how much I love him on Valentine's Day, but if you care so much about winning, I'm quite happy to put my clothes back on."

Ron looks horrified. "No, please don't do that! No, Jesus, sod the chess!"

I finish untying his laces, and pull his shoes off, then his socks, before hauling myself upright and sitting back down beside him. He runs his hand slowly up my bare back and bends his head to press his lips to my shoulder, before a thought occurs to him.

"How long have you been sitting there?"

"Not long. An hour, maybe."

"But I might _really_ have gone to the pub! You could have been sitting there for hours! And even worse, I'd have been in the pub wasting valuable naked time talking to Fat Nigel about Quidditch!"

I laugh. "Yes, but I knew you _weren't_ in the pub. You used the exact same excuse on my birthday."

He chuckles. "Did I?"

"Yes."

"You _would_ remember that. I can't get away with anything with you, can I?"

I tug impatiently at the hem of his jumper. "No. Now hurry up, slowcoach. The sooner you get out of these clothes, the sooner naked chess can begin."

Ron grins, then pulls his jumper and t-shirt over his head and lets them fall behind the sofa.

"Not that I don't like the idea of naked chess, but you do know there are lots of _other_ things we can do naked, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do."

"I made a list."

Ron bursts into laughter, and I glare at him.

"Is this an _actual_ list, Hermione? _Please_ don't tell me you made a pie chart!"

"Where would I keep a _list?" _I deadpan, gesturing down at my naked body.

The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. "I hate to think."

I affect shock. "You're completely filthy, you know that?"

"And you love it."

"I'm not denying it. _Well?"_

"Well, what?"

"Don't you want to hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"_The list!"_

"Oh, God, you've no _idea_ how much I want to hear it!"

"Trousers off, then."

He laughs. "I love it when you order me about. It's just _sooo_ sexy..."

"Trousers… _off!"_

Ron lets out an exaggerated sigh, then hauls himself to his feet, yanks his trousers and pants down to his ankles in one swift movement, steps out of them carefully, and kicks them away from him. I allow my gaze to rake up and down his body the way he did with mine, and then our eyes lock.

I pat the sofa beside me, and he sits down next to me, still rather uncertain.

"Why do I feel like a bit of an idiot?" he grumbles.

"Trust me, it'll wear off. I felt a little foolish at first, too. Anyway," I tease, "It's not like you haven't been naked on this sofa before."

"Yeah, but I wasn't playing _chess_, was I?"

We both look up as Crookshanks saunters out of the bedroom and gives us a thoroughly disdainful, "Oh, god, what are the humans up to _now?_" look.

"Crookshanks," warns Ron, "You come anywhere _near_ my lap and I'll hex your tail off. I mean it."

"Ron!" I scold, trying not to laugh.

"Well, I will," says Ron, fiercely.

Crookshanks raises his head in the air and strolls into the kitchen in search of food.

Ron turns to me in sudden panic. "I've just thought… what happens if we get any surprise visitors?"

I consider for a moment. "Well… I suppose we just don't answer the door."

"Right. But what if it's a delivery man or something?"

"Well, I don't think that's very likely, is it?"

"Well, what if Harry comes round and doesn't get an answer and thinks we've been murdered in our beds or something? He might Apparate into the flat! What if it's my _Mum?"_

I give him one of my finest deathly glares. "Well, I imagine that before that happened, there would probably be an opportunity for us to reassure him we're not dead and to tell him to come back tomorrow."

Ron opens his mouth again, but I cut him off. "And anyway, why would Harry pay us a visit on Valentine's Day? Don't you think he might be kind of busy himself?"

He pulls a face. "That's my sister you're talking about."

"I don't think we need worry about surprise visitors, Ron."

He nods distractedly. "I'm sure you're right. _Oh!"_

"What?"

"I, er, might need to borrow your phone later."

"Why?"

He looks a little sheepish. "Well, if we're not going to leave the flat all weekend..."

"You need to cancel the restaurant?" I finish for him.

He flushes slightly. "Um... yeah."

"Sorry."

"Forget it. We can go to a restaurant any time. This is better."

"What kind of restaurant was it?" I ask him. "Not _French_, I hope!"

I laugh gaily, then realise that Ron isn't laughing.

"But you _hate_ French food! Why on earth did you book a table at a _French_ restaurant?"

"Supposed to be r_omantic_," mumbles Ron.

"But the last time we ate French food you spent the entire night on the toilet! What's so romantic about _dysentery?"_

"Only because I had the snails!" retorts Ron, clearly mortified by the memory. "Can we not have this conversation _now? Please?"_

"Sorry. But seriously; next time? I'll be quite happy with a pizza, OK?"

He laughs. "I'll bear it in mind."

We grin at each other.

"So, talking of food..." he begins.

"What about it?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I don't really fancy wandering about the kitchen with all those knives and hot pans lying around."

"We could order takeaways."

"Not if we can't answer the door."

I heave a sigh. "Ron..."

"What?"

"Do you want me to put my clothes back on again?"

"You're right. I don't know what I'm talking about. We'll just eat sandwiches or something. Ice-cream. No, not ice-cream, it's too cold. Toast. I dunno. Oh, who cares!" he adds hastily, before I can change my mind. As if I'm going to change my mind!

A little light goes on in my head. "This mysterious delivery man that might turn up tomorrow... he wouldn't be a _florist_, would he?"

_"No," _says Ron, not entirely convincingly.

I raise a quizzical eyebrow.

"You know, it's _supposed_ to be a surprise," he says, rather grumpily.

"It's _Valentine's Day_, Ronald. I'd be more surprised if you _hadn't_ bought me flowers. Did you buy champagne and chocolates as well?"

"It's supposed to be a _surprise!"_

"Because I was just thinking that a nice glass of champagne would go down very well indeed..." I whisper, tracing a finger down his forearm in what I hope is a seductive manner.

He laughs, the grumpiness gone in an instant, and reaches down into his rucksack. "Well, it's a good thing I put a chilling spell on this earlier, then!"

"You're wonderful," I tell him, admiringly. "You really thought of everything. Champagne, flowers, chocolates..."

"Maybe we could open those as well," he suggests hopefully. "I mean, since it's not going to be a _surprise_..."

I shake my head. "Let's save the chocolates for tomorrow. I mean, we don't want to spoil our dinner, do we?"

Ron's disappointment at not getting to open the chocolates is immediately replaced by delight at the imminent prospect of food.

"You've made _dinner?_ Fantastic, I'm starving! What are we having?"

He glances automatically towards the kitchen and when he looks back I am holding out a small plastic container on the palm of my hand.

"Me," I tell him, smiling.

He blinks in confusion. "What?"

"Read the label."

"What's this?"

"The other half of your Valentine's Day present."

"What, because you thought that you being naked all weekend wouldn't be enough?"

"Just read it."

Ron squints down at the label. "Chocolate body pai-"

His eyes widen, his mouth falls open, and then, to my confusion, he bursts out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I demand, annoyed.

He shakes his head. "Nothing. I'm sorry. It's just... well... you haven't been speaking to Percy, have you?"

I am more confused than ever. _"Percy?_ No. Why?"

"You don't want to know. _Believe_ me."

I don't know what to say. This wasn't the response I was expecting. "You know, it's _supposed_ to be _romantic_..." I tell him, rather crossly.

He leans in and kisses me on the mouth. "Actually, I think it's supposed to be _sexy_ rather than romantic, but either way it's _fantastic_."

"Really?" I ask, still rather thrown by his reaction.

"It's _chocolate body paint_, Hermione! What's not to like?"

We giggle like a couple of teenagers who have just held hands for the first time, and lean in for another kiss.

"Well,now..." he whispers, "Since I've had _my _present..."

He reaches down into his rucksack again and pulls out an elaborately gift wrapped box about ten inches square.

"Happy not-quite-Valentine's Day."

I take the box gingerly from his hands. It is very light, and my stomach gives a sickly lurch. I have an awful feeling that the evening is about to be roundly ruined.

"I hope you like it," he says, watching me carefully for my reaction.

"It's beautifully wrapped."

"Ah, well, I can't take the credit for that. They wrapped it in the shop."

"Still..."

I unwrap it as slowly as I can, all the time thinking, _Please don't be a red lace basque, please don't be a red lace basque..._

I take a deep breath and pull out something that is neither red, nor lacy, nor – oh, thank God! – crotchless. Instead it is a surprisingly tasteful matching bra and knickers set in a silky chocolate brown shade.

"Matches your eyes," mumbles Ron, and I think he knows full well how cheesy that sounds because he can't even _look _me in the eye when he says it.

I give him an "I can't believe you just said that" look, and we both laugh.

"Sorry," he says, sheepishly.

"I'm just glad it's not in Cannons colours," I joke weakly.

"Oh, believe me, I did look. Funnily enough, they don't seem to make many bright orange bras."

I attempt to surreptitiously check the size, but I am not quick enough.

"It's the right size," he says, a touch defensively. "I know what bra size you are."

I suddenly feel very hot and flushed, and am suddenly seized by a vision of Ron looming over me with a tape measure in the middle of the night, measuring my boobs while I'm asleep.

"How?" I ask, rather huskily.

He looks at me as though I've lost my mind. "I checked the labels on your bras, of course. Why, is there a spell for that sort of thing? Tell me if there is," he adds jokingly, "'Cos Seamus will think all his Christmases have come at once."

"It's really nice," I tell him, hoping he can't hear either the surprise or relief in my voice.

Ron looks rather uncertain. "You like it?"

"I do. I was worried I wouldn't, but... I really do."

"Why were you worried?" he asks, looking amused.

I shrug. "Well... it's a bit of a minefield, isn't it? Buying lingerie for your girlfriend. I was worried you might buy me something I hated and I'd have to pretend I liked it."

He laughs. "Yeah, I was worried about that too. Actually, don't laugh, but I seriously considered buying you some of those magic knickers."

I burst out laughing. "Do you actually know what magic knickers _are?"_

"Yeah, there was a picture on the box. Thank Merlin, 'cos otherwise I might actually have bought them, and this weekend would have panned out a _whole_ lot differently..."

We both laugh, and lean in for another kiss.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I take a deep breath and look down at the floor for a moment to steel myself.

"Would you like me to... try it on?"

Ron takes an inordinately long time to answer, and then, much to my surprise, he shakes his head. "Umm... I can't believe I'm saying this, but... you know what? I really _don't_. Not that I'm not _desperate_ to see you modelling it, 'cos I am, it's just..."

"You prefer what I've got on now?" I finish for him.

"Exactly!"

I can't pretend I'm not relieved. I rather suspect that several glasses of Dutch courage will be required before I feel comfortable modelling my present.

Ron starts to laugh. "Do you have any idea how stressed I've been getting about tomorrow? Trying to make it perfect for you, trying to make our first proper Valentine's day together one to remember. Honestly, I think I must have trailed around every shop in London. I've been asking everyone I know for advice too. And here you are... and it's so simple... you're naked, there's chocolate... I just don't think you could actually have made this any better. And I just bought _stuff."_

I smile. "Champagne and chocolates isn't just _stuff_, Ron. But you're right. I've been getting all stressed out trying to find you the perfect present too. And all the time..."

"The answer was right under your... _clothes_..." he finishes, laughing.

I can't help laughing too. "But it's _true!_ I wanted so much for our first Valentine's Day together to be _perfect_, and I missed the fact that it's already perfect _because_ it's our first Valentine's Day together. I mean, can you even remember what we did on Valentine's Day last year?"

He shakes his head.

"We were living in a cave and in fear of our lives. The year before that we were living in a cave too. And the year before _that_..."

"The year before that, I was still going out with Lavender and trying to think of ways to dump her, and you weren't even speaking to me," he finishes, burying his face in his hands in horror at the memory.

"Exactly. And look at us now."

"Sitting naked on a sofa?" he grins.

"Sitting naked on _our_ sofa, in _our _flat, with a whole weekend of nakedness ahead of us. We're _alive_, Ron, and we're together, and - did I ever tell you I love you?"

He smiles. "A few times. Tell me again anyway."

"I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you!"

He takes me in his arms and kisses me, and the little tub of chocolate body paint slips from my hand and rolls across the floor.

"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?" he whispers into my ear.

I smile. "A few times. Tell me again."

He kisses my forehead tenderly. "You're beautiful." He kisses my neck. "And this is _perfect."_ He kisses my shoulder. "And _you're_ perfect." His lips graze mine. "And I love you."

We kiss again, and slide down on the sofa until I am lying half on top of him. The flames from the fire cast tiny flickering shadows across our skin. Ron kisses the top of my head and pulls me tight against him, murmuring my name into my hair. I close my eyes and surrender myself to the feel of his arms around me and the warmth of his skin pressed against mine. His fingers draw soft little figures of eight in the small of my back and I let out a sigh of contentment.

After a few minutes Ron starts to laugh, and I lift my head and look up at him.

"Something funny?"

He grins and shakes his head. "Well... it's my birthday in two weeks. I was just wondering how you're going to top this..."

* * *

_Endnote:_

_Well, that one went to the wire! Hope you enjoyed the unexpected extra couple of chapters, and that you got through Valentine's Day mostly unscathed. Please leave a review if you can, and do sign up for my Author Alerts if you haven't already, because there may well be another little one-off treat next month. It "may" be themed around another day of celebration, and "may" possibly feature Ron and Seamus and rather a lot of Guinness. Ooh, I am a tease, aren't I?_

_Pb, Feb 14__th __2011. 23.57 pm GMT._

_p.s.: Anyone who can find another Valentine's Day story that features both the words "crotchless" and "dysentery" wins a prize!_


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